


[rest]Less (the folsom prison blues remix)

by snowpuppies



Category: BtVS/AtS - Fandom
Genre: F/F, Language, Violence, and uh...weird-con non-sex?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-11-16 17:03:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11257146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowpuppies/pseuds/snowpuppies
Summary: At the end of BtVS S4, someone else receives a visitor.





	[rest]Less (the folsom prison blues remix)

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  **Title** : [rest]Less (the folsom prison blues remix)  
>  **Author** : [](http://snowpuppies.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](http://snowpuppies.dreamwidth.org/)**snowpuppies**  
>  **Fandom** : BtVS/Ats  
>  **Character/Pairing** : Faith, Faith/Tara/First Slayer  
>  **Genre** : Angst  
>  **Rating** : NC17  
>  **Highlight for Warnings** : ** language, violence, and uh... _weird-con non-sex?_ **  
>  **Distribution** : Please don't archive or distribute without asking.  
>  **Summary** : At the end of BtVS S4, someone else receives a visitor.  
>  **Word Count** : ~1200  
>  **x-posted to** : TBA
> 
> **A/N** : for [](http://punch-kicker15.livejournal.com/profile)[**punch_kicker15**](http://punch-kicker15.livejournal.com/) as a part of [](http://femslash-minis.livejournal.com/profile)[**femslash_minis**](http://femslash-minis.livejournal.com/)'s Round 108 - Tara. This has little to do with Tara, or even the request, but it possessed my brain after reading your prompt and wouldn't let go. I hope you like it even if it's not...anywhere near what you had in mind.
> 
> Beta'd by the stupendiferous and wonderflonius Gabrielle. All mistakes, however, remain in my custody.
> 
>  

 

**[rest]Less  
(the folsom prison blues remix)**

 

_One…two…three…pivot…_

_One…two…three…pivot…_

She counts out the steps as she strides back and forth across the front of her cell, knuckles knocking easily against the cool, smooth surface of the metal bars.

_One…two…three…pivot…_

Gaze fixed on nothing, she continues to pace, the steady huff of her breath accompanying the _fap_ , _fap_ , _fap_ of prison-issue sneakers on the cement floor.

_One...two...three...pivot..._

She's been awake for thirty-seven hours.

It feels like a lifetime.

Caged…

She's caged, locked away like a rabid dog, like a naughty stepchild—been there, done that—like a _criminal_.

She _is_ a criminal.

She deserves this, deserves every panic-inducing, sleep-deprived moment.

_One...two...three...pivot..._

Still pacing, she clenches her hands, rubbing at swollen knuckles, fingers tracing cracked and shallow lifelines; she can't see it, but the blood is always there.

_One...two...three...pivot..._

Breath caught in her chest, she halts; the grey cinderblock wall is gone, and her cell opens into a room.

It's too familiar, and she hesitates to move forward, but even one stumbling step finds her feet on ratty beige-ish carpet, the smell of cigarettes and weed permeating the fibers and rising up from the floor. A steady thump-thump-thump comes from the wall next door. Muffled moans and grunts and cries echo through the cheap drywall.

Every muscle tenses; she wonders which "boyfriend" her mother's entertaining this time.

A minute, an hour, a week passes. Her mother emerges, makeup-smeared and half-naked, lit cigarette dangling from her lips. A male form presses up behind, broad shoulders and dark tousled hair and yellow, glowing eyes.

"Angel...?" The word escapes her lips, unbidden.

"Close." A familar smirk, outlined in razor-sharp teeth.

"What the hell...?" Threads of time warp and weave in her brain and she blinks in confusion.

He buries his face in the flesh of her mother's neck; her mother responds with a groan and arches back against his body. He raises his head, just enough so that she can see the blood drip from his chin.

"Some things are just better from the source."

She jerks, heart thundering in her chest as she launches forward, anger setting her body alight from toes to scalp.

She crashes onto a paved road.

The apartment has vanished; it's dark and mist covers the ground next to a cemetery. She attempts to blink away the fog and images flash against her retinas: Her mother, arched back against a naked chest, blood flowing down and drenching her robe; blue eyes, wide and blinking, a voice, sibilant and strong, repeating "you don't belong;" hands, covered in blood; a slice of cheese falls, slow-motion, onto the dirty floor; Wilkins, dead eyes unseeing as she cries; Kakistos, rancid breath in her face; the voice, echoing...

 

"You don't belong."

 

"Huh?" She's back on the road, dust against her fingers, and she crawls to her feet. Her hands don't look like her hands. They're not real, _she's_ not real. The road is two-dimensional and a strangely smooth medium gray. A colorful van pulls to a stop nearby.

Giles steps from the driver's seat while B and her crew spill from the back.

They're wrong. They're all wrong.

"Hurry and grab her," Xander cries, running to catch one of her arms while Willow follows suit. She glances down as crudely-drawn fingers grasp her forearms.

"Now we've caught you," Willow crows, silly smile stretching across her face as her free hand adjusts her glasses.

They're not right. There's something...off.

"Take off her mask," a life-sized, cartoon... _rabbit?_...encourages.

"No." Shaking her head, Buffy walks closer, smoothing her purple skirt then crossing her arms over her chest. "She's not wearing one."

Giles steps closer.

She leans away from his scrutiny.

Straightening his ascot, he clears his throat.

"Quite right, Buffy. Some monsters hide in plain sight."

Breath caught in her chest, she jerks away as the clean, simple lines of animation flicker and falter, leaving the gritty reality of the world. Her toes sink into inches of dry sand; she falters and crashes to the desert floor. A slice of cheese lies, dirty and torn, beneath her nose.

Shiny shoes stop an inch away. She looks up as a strange man in glasses peers down, his face twisted with disgust.

"The cheese does not belong here." Stepping over her fallen form, he strides away.

 

The world blurs.

 

She's standing.

A girl, strangely familiar, glides forward across the dunes, blonde hair and pink skirt rippling in the breeze.

"This isn't you." The girl is close now, blue eyes blinking slowly in observation or compassion or judgment, any and all, and for a moment, she's both a girl and something _other_ , something older and _wiser_.

 

She feels small.

 

Then blue eyes crinkle at the corners and the alien presence falls away, leaving just the girl, sweet like honey, an oasis in a literal desert.

 

Heat courses through her body.

 

The girl smiles as she leans forward, capturing soft, pink lips with her own. She delves into the girl's mouth, moist and slick and in complete contrast to the harsh sand beneath her feet. She falls back into a rock and lands on her bed at the Sunnydale Motel. Her bare body arches as a mouth attacks her pussy, tongue and teeth and long, slim fingers touching and teasing and scraping along her folds. It's electric and the world fades into a white-hot nothingness except for the swollen flesh between her legs, pulsing and twitching in concert to the beat of her heart. Grasping hands find smooth locks, twisted around her fingers, pulling and grunting, frantic need consuming toes to teeth itching uncontrollably and she screams in pain, jerking and flailing as she pulls the head away.

Still struggling to push past the pain, she sits up, but the sweet blonde is gone. In her place is a sinister grin and flashing eyes against dark skin.

"You," the voices hisses, spat from a mouth shiny with her juices and smudged with her blood, "don't belong."

She scrambles backwards and falls from the bed, bare skin scraping along the sand of the desert once more. She hisses as each movement pulls at the damaged skin between her thighs.

A body collides with her, limbs long and hardened by sweat and survival grappling with her own, stubby nails shredding her flesh, white teeth flashing as the figure snaps and hisses and growls. She flails, kicking and punching randomly, no rhyme or reason, and she's lost everything she's ever learned and she's not a Slayer anymore, no, the strength fades from her muscles and she cries out in the desert as she is devoured.

She's not powerful.

Not invincible.

She's just a girl.

A victim.

 

_Again_.

 

 

 

Tears fall from sightless eyes as she gives in, gives _up_.

 

 

She blinks as her body goes numb.

 

 

The figure is gone and the girl is there again, crouched next to her head, blue eyes filled with compassion and wisdom, not _other_ this time, but a wisdom created in shared pain and loss and one grown too young.

"This isn't you." A whisper against her skin.

 

A kiss, pressed against her lips, benediction.

 

 

 

 

 

She jerks, forehead slamming into the empty bunk above.

"For Fuck's sake, keep it down in there!" Big-Tits Belinda's voice echoes down the hall of the cellblock as she curses and rubs her aching skull.

Sighing, she falls back against the cot and stares at the stained mattress above.

 

She licks her lips.

 

 

They taste like nothing at all.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_FIN_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

***

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